


Fade Into Me

by stardropdream



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bad Sex, Bath Sex, Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fingerfucking, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Episode: s05e13 The Diamond of the Day, Rimming, Sex Magic, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-01 23:52:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2792213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur watches the way the gold glints in Merlin’s eyes, flames and shudders across his iris and then fades away – and Arthur can’t breathe and Merlin, realizing it’s anything <i>but</i> disgust, feeling smug, merely lifts an eyebrow.  Arthur looks away, blushing, his hands flexing where they rest on Merlin’s hips and mutters, “… Do that again.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fade Into Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts).



> So this is the first thing I've written in foreverrrrr, and my attempt to break out of my writer's block. At this point, I've been working on it so much I don't know if it's good or bad, but I'm ready to move on from it. It's written with the prompt "someone's biggest kink being fulfilled" and I decided to run with the idea of Arthur _really_ liking Merlin's magic. 
> 
> There are a lot of additional tags, but just because this fic is larger than most I've written in a while and I wanted to cover anything, just in case there's something that someone doesn't like. Or something. I don't know, look at that massive list ahaha... And let me know if I missed something you think I should add.

**0.**  
It first starts when they’re pressed together on the couch, Merlin sliding over him, kissing him – slow and gentle and entirely too distracting, and Arthur is kissing back, making soft, encouraging sounds and dragging his hands over his back in turn. This isn’t so unusual for them – ever since Arthur first remerged from the lake, it’s hard for Merlin to go too long without putting some kind of touch against Arthur, to feel him breathing, to feel his heart, to feel that he’s _there_. And like this, there isn’t any kind of burden to pull Arthur to him, to melt against him, to have Arthur sigh out and seek him out, lips against lips. Merlin can feel the weight of his hands as if burning gentle into his flesh – branding him, marking him. They shift together, more focused on the kissing than anything else even though Merlin can feel the sharp line of Arthur pressing against him, already half-hard, and it would only take the slightest shift of his hips for him to slide up against him and work them both past just a half-rise. But there’s also Arthur’s soft, pliant lips to consider, a warm and open mouth seeking his, sighing out and breathing out his name, hands grasping at him like a lifeline. And, truly, that’s as compelling a reason as any to just focus on suckling on his tongue, on pillowing his lips to his, teeth scraping gently over lip, tongue brushing down into his mouth, fingers curling and carding through his hair, thumb brushing against the shell of his ear and—

And then the kettle goes off, and Merlin starts up, and Arthur’s groaning a bit beneath him, frustration and desire woven together. Merlin glances down at him and Arthur’s watching him, grumpy and petulant at the interruption, and then Merlin murmurs a spell to get the heat to shut off on the stove, the dial turning with a decisive click, and his face is close up and flushed, breathless, his eyes sparking that familiar gold, and Merlin feels Arthur still beneath him. When he looks to Arthur again, half-expecting fear, withdrawal – Arthur is looking up at him still – even more breathless than before, lips slightly parted, eyes wide. The breath seems to have been stolen out of him, but Merlin can feel that familiar, reassuring beat of his heart underneath his hand where it’s pressed to his chest. 

Arthur watches the way the gold glints in Merlin’s eyes, flames and shudders across his iris and then fades away – and Arthur can’t breathe and Merlin, realizing it’s anything _but_ disgust, feeling smug, merely lifts an eyebrow. Arthur looks away, blushing, his hands flexing where they rest on Merlin’s hips and mutters, “… Do that again.”

So Merlin does. 

 

 **I.**  
Merlin licks his lips and that’s utterly distracting on its own, but then he says, quietly, “About the other day.” 

“What?” Arthur mutters from where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, frowning down at his boots which are at once so similar to the boots he knew in Camelot and yet deceptively different. As are many things here in this _modernity_ , at once familiar and yet foreign. But then he looks away from his boots and focuses on Merlin’s mouth instead, and Merlin’s biting his lip which, again, is utterly distracting.

“About the magic,” Merlin says with a small shrug, and Arthur really has to wonder how much of this reluctance is feigned and how much of it is genuine. Knowing Merlin, probably a mixture of both – he is, of course, talking about the greatest sorcerer that ever lived (still a weird thing to think about) who still manages to act like a bumbling fool sometimes despite centuries of life. He saw the idiot trip over the edge of the area rug the other day. But he’s also the person who will randomly giggle sometimes halfway through a make-out session. So Arthur’s learned to take everything Merlin says with some reluctance, always waiting for what side of Merlin the statement will reflect. And whether or not he’s being teased mercilessly, like that one time with the rubber ducks. 

“And?” Arthur prompts.

“There’s something I want to try.” Merlin waits a beat and then says, lifting his eyebrows, “Is that alright, _Sire_?” 

Arthur hates that he shivers. And then Arthur rolls his eyes, leaning back on his hands. “What kind of question is that?” 

He tries to play it cool but then he thinks about the way the gold flamed up in Merlin’s eyes when he’d shut off the kettle and he blushes a little. 

“Go ahead, then,” he says, frowning, when Merlin doesn’t give any prompting, knowing that Arthur will offer the answer on his own. “Try it.” 

Merlin looks at him for half a second and then steps forward. Arthur doesn’t have time to think or process or even think to ask what he wants to try because then Merlin pushes him back and straddles him, kissing him full on the lips and Arthur’s mind is reeling but he’s easily distracted, hands reaching up and pulling Merlin down closer, his hands splaying flat over Merlin’s back. This isn’t the first time they’ve kissed, obviously, and hardly the first time they’ve slept together since he emerged from the lake, but there’s a note of desperation hanging in the air as Merlin kisses him deeply and Arthur can’t help but keen a little in surprise as he responds. 

He knows, of course, that Merlin’s moving with this precision, this dedication because of this new edge of honesty between them – the permission to use his magic. Up until now, Merlin’s magic use has been minimal, limited to very brief encounters whenever Arthur is in the room – and Arthur can’t exactly blame him for it, and part of him is still so uncertain, still unsure about the entire thing, still having such a difficult reconciling the magic with _Merlin_ , when the fact that Merlin is even here at all with him is entirely because of his immortality. But now that he’s been granted the permission, it feels as if something has shifted between them – and Merlin kisses him like he’s breathing life into him. 

Their hands grope at one another, senseless, pulling clothes from each other – until Merlin, of course, is sensible and slaps Arthur’s hands away in favor of stripping the both of them more effectively than Arthur’s stumbling hands can manage. And they slide together, skin on skin, and Arthur gasps out quietly as Merlin kisses him deeply, and it takes only a few strokes of Merlin’s hand to get his cock plumping up between them, deft fingers curled tight and stroking, quickly but leisured in its pace. Arthur gasps out, pants a little, open-mouthed as Merlin smiles into the kiss, licking and biting at his lower lip in a contemplative silence. 

He works at Arthur’s cock slowly, deepening the kiss as he strokes him rhythmically. For all of Merlin’s ridiculousness, in this, he manages to be coordinated, turning Arthur into putty beneath him. 

And Merlin moans, quietly, low and guttural, and Arthur hisses out a little as he arches beneath him, unsure just what it is that Merlin has in mind, just what he wants to try, but willing to go along for the ride, shivering a little as Merlin’s cock slides into Merlin’s grip, their cocks pressed together and stroking. Trusting Merlin, just as he always does, to give him reason to moan. 

Arthur squirms a little, and as he always does, Merlin responds without prompting, always knowing exactly what it is that Arthur needs – and brushes his hands soothingly over his sides instead, stroking over him as he rocks his cock along the hollow of his hip. Arthur sighs out, kisses Merlin sloppily, relaxing and feeling a strange sense of calm as he kisses Merlin, as he feels Merlin move over him. 

But then Merlin moves away, kissing down Arthur’s chest, unhurried and just focusing on every inch of skin. He breathes out, presses his forehead to the spot just above his heart and his fingertips trace very lightly over the faded, piercing scar of Mordred’s blade. Neither of them speaks nor even moves for a moment, focused entirely on just the touch of Merlin’s fingers on him. And then Merlin glances up and finds that Arthur’s watching him, and there’s a small smile, painful and fleeting, melancholy with the sudden weight of a thousand years. Arthur reaches out, fumbling a little, feeling lost and awkward in the face of that expression, and tangles his fingers in Merlin’s hair – and murmurs his name, both comfort and warning. 

Merlin shakes his head, though, breathing out, and ducks his head, pressing a soft kiss to that scar and then moving on. Neither of them speaks. Neither of them needs to speak. Merlin pillows his lips down over Arthur’s skin, light without tickling, and firm enough to be present. 

And then he moves down further and curls his mouth around the tip of Arthur’s cock, and it’s hardly the first time that Merlin’s done this for him, but there’s a purpose to it now, even as Merlin handles him with the care he always does – kissing and tonguing the side with long, slow swipes of his tongue. His lips drag slowly, and he swallows around the head of his cock and suckles, touch gentle and teasing, and Arthur watches his lips, watches the way they pucker and slide, stretch and curl. 

Then Merlin makes a low, pleased sound and Arthur groans, fingers twisting into his hair – not guiding him, but holding him, just tethering him there. Merlin looks up at him, smiling around his cockhead and Arthur’s fingers twist tight. 

And Merlin bobs his head once, twice, swallowing down around him briefly, pulling back to lick and kiss over the head, his lips pillowing lightly, and Arthur murmurs his name like a prayer. 

Merlin looks up at him, waits for Arthur to open his eyes and meet his gaze, and then he draws back from his cock, fingers twisted around the base, and whispers out a spell – and his eyes flame up in that familiar gold that makes Arthur’s insides twist up with pleasure, somehow just the change of eyes and the smell of magic and sex in the air enough to make him want to cry out. 

But then Merlin swallows him down to the root and Arthur’s sounds turn a little more guttural in response, gasping out quietly and letting out a breathless moan as Merlin swallows him down, his nose brushing against his navel. He feels like he’s going to finish just from that, with Merlin only just starting, because he can’t process it – it’s the combination of Merlin’s mouth and that magic. And he watches Merlin curl his mouths lightly, suckling, his tongue doing hideously unfair things as he swallows tight and low around him, and Arthur’s _gone_ , moaning and rocking his head back, distracted by the touch, by the feel, but remembering that delicate curl of gold in blue. 

Merlin lays worship to him and bobs down, pulling all the way back so he’s just suckling on the tip again before swallowing down around him all over again, moaning around him, never once choking or pausing for breath – just focusing entirely on getting Arthur into his mouth. He makes it look easy – because it is easy, guided by that magic – just works at him like it’s as simple as breathing, that drawing out Arthur’s pleasure so seamlessly hardly requires any effort. 

“Merlin,” he gasps out, fingers twisting hard in Merlin’s hair. “Yes – yeah. That’s… yeah.” 

And Merlin laughs, hums out, makes it messy and doesn’t care that he’s leaving sloppy kisses all over him, dragging his mouth down over him, swallowing around him until his lips are stretched around the base of his cock, his tongue stroking over him, feeling the cockhead pressing to the back of his throat, his mouth loose and open for him. 

Merlin’s running his hands down over Arthur, touching him anywhere he can reach, over his thighs, his hips, his sides, touches at the sensitive skin of his balls and the underside of his cock as he draws back to breathe, curls fingers along the head of his cock as he kisses and slides down along the side of him. 

“Go on,” Merlin whispers, and takes Arthur down his throat again, lets Arthur moan, lets him thrash and thrust, demanding, his mouth open in a silent beg he’d never dare voice like this, and he can’t breathe from it, lets himself sink down hard onto Arthur, takes him in and moans around his cock, drags his hands over him, feels Arthur’s hands slide from his hair and trace over his cheeks – and he makes a helpless, pleased sound and that’s enough for Arthur to gasp out and come in his mouth. 

He’s undone, blissed out, when Merlin finishes drinking him down, draws back slowly and just licks at him until he goes soft under his efforts, twitching once in a vague attempt to get hard again and not summoning the recovery time to do so. Merlin looks up at Arthur, smiles a little, and his throat and jaw are sore but he doesn’t even care as he crawls up to meet Arthur – who cups his face and kisses him sloppily, tastes himself on his tongue, laps into him like he’s drowning. 

“I,” Arthur gasps out between sloppily exchanged kisses that slowly grow lazy and leisurely, simple slides of their lips against one another, breathing in each other’s space, “did not think this is what you’d do when I said you should do more magic.”

Merlin laughs, delighted, his stomach twisting up just with such a simple admittance – just a simple acknowledgement that he’s doing magic, and he’s doing magic around Arthur, and Arthur is asking for it. His hands shake as they card through Arthur’s hair and he smiles as he kisses him, foolish and drunk on love for this man. 

“I can find other things,” Merlin whispers, a promise he intends to keep – especially when Arthur’s breath hitches just slightly and his kiss becomes a little more heated, his hand drifting between them to curl around Merlin in turn. 

It’s a trick learned years ago, and there are others he can try. Others he will try. Others he’ll perfect, just for Arthur, just because Arthur wants it – just because he can, just because all he wants is to see that look on Arthur’s face as he performs magic, magic meant only for him. 

 

 **II.**  
Arthur’s still sleeping when Merlin wakes up with the dawn, which isn’t all that surprising. Merlin’s sleep-schedule, completely ruined over thousands of years of nightmares and regrets, has always left Merlin waking up at different times and usually just going with it, never really trying to fight against it – or fight against when he falls asleep, usually in Arthur’s arms. Arthur, despite thousands of years of sleep, still sleeps much like a log and, if he had his way, wouldn’t wake up until well into the afternoon. Merlin goes about his morning routine, brushing his teeth, cleaning up a bit, getting himself a cup of tea and listening to the birds outside the kitchen’s window. He closes his eyes and searches out, feels the distant thrum of magic in the land, in the air – and he’s felt it fade away piece by piece over the years. But lately, it feels as if it’s growing again, never like it was during the Old Ways, but enough that, with Arthur’s return, he notices the renewal. 

When he returns to the bedroom he shares with Arthur, Arthur still hasn’t moved a muscle. He’s snoring peacefully and Merlin smiles at Arthur on his stomach, one knee cocked up a bit, his face pressed against Merlin’s pillow. 

Merlin slides back into his side of the bed, and reaches out for a pillow – it smells like Arthur, and Merlin just lets himself get lost in that smell, just gets lost in the familiar, achingly warm presence of Arthur lying there beside him, breathing there beside him, hearing the steady beat of his heart if he lets magic tune his hearing for those murmuring sounds. He reaches out and brushes back Arthur’s hair, slides his hand down over his neck. 

Arthur doesn’t even stir. Merlin smiles a bit and shifts closer, sighing out and kissing his shoulder, curls his arm around him and nuzzles into the back of Arthur’s neck. Arthur is warm, muscled and scarred, and perfect. He kisses the top of Arthur’s spine, runs his hands down his back, and there’s a level of trust there to knowing that he can touch Arthur, that Arthur can stay perfectly asleep, boneless and lax beneath his hands – that if he were to wake up, he’d grunt a bit, shift, roll onto his back and pull Merlin to him – and their kisses would be slow and sleepy and grow more heated only once Arthur’s been coaxed from sleepiness. 

Merlin props himself up on one elbow, watches the curve of Arthur’s face. His eyelashes rest on his cheek, heavy and full, his mouth pliant and open with his soft breaths and the occasional snore. He looks so incredibly boyish and young that it nearly steals Merlin’s breath away – weighed down, once again, with all the impossible years stretching out between them. How far away and timeless Arthur feels in that moment, underneath his hands, a king in a world that no longer needs kings – and yet looking just a young man rather than the timeless entity they both are now. 

But Merlin needs him. And Merlin will always need him. His hands are heavy against Arthur, anchoring him, as if he were likely to drift away with sleep, the realm of sleep so dangerously close to the shores of Avalon. 

Merlin kisses the back of his neck, kisses his shoulder, kisses down his spine. His hands slide down over him, cup his arse, squeeze a little, his fingers sliding down into the crease and pressing against without pressing in. He murmurs a spell and the little drawer in the bedside table opens and the bottle of lube floats to him. 

He takes it easily, pressing slow kisses to the small of Arthur’s back. Arthur’s breathing is shifting now, his leg is moving from its half-cocked position and sliding back beneath where Merlin sits before him, leaning over him, fingers slicking up. 

“Merlin,” he murmurs, as Merlin shushes him, rubs his fingers and thumb together to warm the lube before he presses his fingers into the crease of his arse, stroking over him. He keeps up a steady, soft stroke and listens to the sound of Arthur’s breath growing faster. 

Merlin presses one finger into him and Arthur arches slightly. Merlin nudges into him and the soft, wet sound his finger makes as it slides past tight muscles and into Arthur. He keens very quietly, still sleepy, still half-dreaming, and he moans quietly. It’s only when Merlin adds a second finger that Arthur sighs and turns his head, lifting off the pillow to give Merlin a fond and incredulous look. 

“Wh—”

“Mm,” Merlin agrees with a small smile, lifts up so he can kiss the back of Arthur’s ear, nuzzle into his hair as he presses his two fingers in deep, stretching him. Arthur squirms, always so sensitive and responsive, and burrows his head down into the pillow with a groan. Merlin’s smile widens and he just listens to the steady hitch of Arthur’s breath before whispering, “Good morning, Sire.”

“ _Merlin._ ” 

“Should I try something?” he whispers into Arthur’s ear, nuzzling into his hair and kissing down his neck. Arthur moans quietly, helplessly, when Merlin spreads his fingers. And then he nods, and Merlin nods, too, breathing out and pulling away from him. 

Arthur whines softly, still sleepy, lifts his hips a bit so his arse is in the air, and Merlin brushes one hand down his back, the other stroking along the crease of his arse, teasing at him without pushing in. He presses again and again, then slowly pushes in, gentle and easy. His other hand strokes down his spine. 

Arthur twists around to watch him, expectant, and Merlin smiles at him, feeling a bit hesitant, and whispers out the spell he’d been perfecting the last few days. Arthur bites his lip as the magic spreads out inside of Merlin and flows out, and then Arthur gasps out and shudders at the sudden sensation of a third hand ghosting down his chest. There’s no hand there, just the phantom sensation of it, and it’s followed a moment later by a fourth touch at his cock, curling around it and stroking. 

Merlin’s own hands work diligently, pressing a third finger into Arthur while his other hand strokes along the small of his back. The phantom touches bloom from nothing – one hand on Arthur’s chest, the other on his cock, a fifth touch in his hair, petting him gently. A sixth touch brushes at his cheek, a seventh traces the curves of his muscles in his arms. 

Arthur can feel every inch of him being touched, kissed, stroked, brushed – teased at, and stroked firmly in places. He feels stretched open, it feels good – each hand feels like Merlin’s own. There’s the little quirk of his fingers, the slide of his thumb, the brush of his palm. The hand on his cock is doing that little twisting wrist motion at the head that Merlin always does when he wants to hold off on getting Arthur to come, but wants him to feel every inch of it besides. 

It’s an endless drag of hands on him – over his cock, pressing inside him, along his spine, into his hair, into his mouth, kneading at his shoulders, circling at his temples – _everywhere._ It’s a push and a pull of heat, of skin, of sweat collecting on Arthur’s brow as he rocks back against Merlin’s hands, as he arches, as he gasps out when Merlin adds a fourth finger still inside of him, stretches him wider than he thinks is possible to still be pleasurable, and yet fists his hands in the fabric of the sheets and feels hand curling around his wrists, holding him in place as Merlin fucks into him with one hand, fingers spread. He’s moaning, desperate, rocking forward, feels like it’s taking forever and not nearly long enough at once. 

And all at once it becomes overwhelming. Too much. All at once, the hands aren’t gentle reminders, but rather ghosting, phantom touches that he can’t connect to, can’t draw back from. They follow his every movement, and he shudders and comes with a soft cry, clenching his hands tight in the bed and rocking desperately back against Merlin’s hand. He’s shuddering, over sensitive, his entire body trembling. 

He rocks desperately into the phantom hand at his cock, rocks back just as desperately to meet the solid hand working him open – and both are just as real to him in that moment, he can feel it all, and it’s too much. He gasps out, cries out, sobs out Merlin’s name and all he can think of are those hands on him, how good it feels, how desperately he needs it—

Once he’s spent, though, he’s still shuddering – and the hands are still there, stroking over his limp cock after straining him dry, pressing at his thighs, stroking over his toes, petting at his hair and brushing over his ear. It’s all too much and he sobs out, over-sensitive, feeling he’d come again so quickly if he only had the chance to do so. 

“Wait,” he gasps out in a broken sob, overwhelmed, shuddering and not from pleasure now. “Stop—”

“Arthur,” Merlin begins, alarmed by the tone of his voice, but the cadence of his trembling, draws his hands back and Arthur goes limp on the bed – but still he feels Merlin’s phantom touches all over him. He hears Merlin murmur a spell, feels the loss of the hands’ touches against him.

But he can still feel it all, in excruciating detail, sublime detail. He’s shaking so violently that he can hardly stay still. He rolls onto his back, gasping for air, and Merlin is there – speaking to him, whispering out apologies, petting his two hands over his face and into his hair – but even that simple touch is too much and he’s crying out weakly, shuddering, feeling as if every touch is magnified, that he can feel it all in a slow, torturous drag. The hands move away from him, fearful, wanting to touch him but unable to do so and just the thought of Merlin’s fingertips brushing over his arms or into his hair makes him gulp for air, shuddering, and his senses are on fire, unable to focus on anything – not Merlin’s voice, not the smell of him or the sight of him, and the touch of him is just too much. 

“Merlin,” he gasps out because he doesn’t know what else to do. He can’t breathe. He’s light-headed. He’s sick to his stomach. He’s all twisted up and can’t stay the same as he was and he wants more and nothing at all and— he gasps out Merlin’s name again, crying out, gasping and gulping down air. 

“I’m here,” Merlin says, his voice choking up, whispers a spell, tries to calm him, but every touch, every wisp of breath from Merlin’s lips ghosting across his cheek feels like a heavy hand around his cock and he gasps out and shudders. 

He groans quietly, shudders, still shaking and Merlin just sits back and tries to cast spells, not touching him. But he can feel Merlin’s hands all over him, lingering still, shadows of shadows.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin whispers, “I’m sorry – you’ll be okay.”

Arthur shakes his head, can’t find the words or the breath to tell him that it’s alright, that it doesn’t hurt, it’s just too much, too much, and not enough—

He closes his eyes. 

He’s left like that for the rest of the day, Merlin desperately trying to find a way to reverse the spell, but Arthur left shuddering in the bed, the slightest touch enough to leave him achingly hard, crying out for relief, his entire body electrified and shuddering with the touch, every inch of him dizzy with longing and sensation. It’s too much and not enough at all. Every touch is torture. Too much. 

When the spell finally wears off, Merlin folds into his arms and whispers out apologies over and over, and Arthur can’t even summon the energy to tell him it’s fine, instead murmuring his name softly and kissing his temple, and holding him close until he falls into an exhausted sleep after hours of torture. Merlin is pressed to his side and that, at least, is enough. 

 

 **III.**  
It’s several days after the incident with the botched spell before either of them even attempt to approach magic in bed again. The days between are spent with slow, lazy kisses and gentle reassurances of pleasure and deliberate use of hands and other bits. Arthur can’t complain – being able to hold Merlin to him, watch his face as he comes, is more than enough for him, at the heart of it. Holding Merlin after they’re sated and boneless is probably his favorite part, even more so than the sex itself. 

And then Merlin asks Arthur if he wants a massage, and Arthur gives him a long, steady look – waiting for the joke, or for the tease. When it doesn’t come, he shrugs and lifts a hand to play with Merlin’s hair. 

“Why?” he asks. 

Merlin rolls his eyes. “I’m good at them.”

“Oh yeah, how do you figure that?” 

“Really, Arthur,” Merlin tuts, warmly, expression soft as he laughs. “You should know by now that I have magic hands.” 

He shuffles up and wiggles his fingers a little to demonstrate – and Arthur can’t help but laugh. 

“Just magic hands? Not the rest of you?” Arthur asks and feels ridiculous about how widely he grins. “Guess that’s true, otherwise you’d have magicked those ears smaller decades ago.”

Merlin rolls his eyes and climbs into Arthur’s lap, draping his arms over Arthur’s shoulders and kissing him lazily. Arthur sighs out, runs his hands up his back and pulls him in close. They kiss, leisured and deliberate. 

Arthur knows, without Merlin saying it, how much Merlin wants to make it up to him for the other night. Not that Arthur has avoided it, not that he’s flinched away from Merlin, but Arthur knows how badly Merlin wants for him to relax, wants for him to be happy. And Arthur, in turn, knows that he’d do whatever it is that Merlin asks, even if he’d deny it aloud – he knows, completely, that he will do as Merlin asks, every time. Just as he knows that Merlin would do everything in his power to make Arthur happy in turn.

There are hands kneading at the back of his neck now and he sighs for the feel of it, for having Merlin close, for never really, truly growing used to having Merlin like this – after centuries, after lifetimes without him. Merlin sighs out in answer, deepens the kiss, slides his fingers into Arthur’s hair, circling along his scalp. 

Touch exceptionally gentle, Merlin pushes Arthur down, and Arthur rolls onto his stomach. Merlin’s hands, warm and dry, just brush gently down his spine and shifts to sit over him – and Arthur feels the soft pressure on the outside of his legs as Merlin straddles his thighs. 

“Look at me,” Merlin says quietly, and Arthur obeys, twisting around to look up at him. Merlin smiles at him, and his eyes flash gold as he speaks a spell and the smell of crushed mint fills the air.

Merlin runs slicked hands across his shoulders, along his ribs, and there’s a release of the minty fragrance in the air, oddly pleasant and Arthur sinks further into the bed, resting his face on the pillow, turned slightly so he can watch Merlin absently. 

“It’s nice,” he finally murmurs, and it’s shocking to him how such a simple touch can already make him feel and sound so sleepy and relaxed – but then, he knew this of Merlin. He trusts him, always, to make him relax like this. He shuts his eyes after a moment, and it’s less a massage as it is Merlin just running his hands over him, and he shivers comfortably at the touch. 

The shiver, however, is enough to make Merlin pause, too reminiscent of the days before – making sure it isn’t too much. It’d taken nearly an entire day to get Arthur able to handle so much as the briefest touch. 

“You’re alright, Sire?”

“Yeah,” Arthur sighs, shaking his head. “Keep going, idiot.” 

So Merlin nods and does as he says, spreading his hands over every inch of Arthur’s skin he can reach, occasionally stooping down so he can press a constellation of kisses across his neck and jaw, brief peppering of his lips against his skin, and Arthur sighs out to feel Merlin’s warm breath, the curve of his lips in a smile. 

His hands are warm and steady and even just that is irresistible for Arthur, who squirms occasionally but mostly does his best to hold still. Merlin’s mouth is curved into a perpetual, gentle smile and Arthur just lets himself go to the touch of it all – just lets himself sink into Merlin’s touch, trusting Merlin to do what he wants and know exactly what Arthur wants in turn. Sometimes it seems that Merlin knows what Arthur wants before Arthur himself can even think to begin to articulate it. And thus it goes, with Merlin kneading gently into his shoulders and back, working out the knots, brushing his hands purposefully over his skin. 

And then, all at once, it’s not enough, and Arthur lets out a soft little sigh, arches slightly, and mumbles, “Merlin, come on.” 

“Was just waiting on you,” Merlin admits, and then Arthur shifts upwards. 

They move in a fumbling movement of awkward limbs, reaching for each other and groping at each other and Merlin ends up in Arthur’s lap again, and their kiss is verging on desperate and Merlin lifts his hands, tangles them in his hair, and Arthur mutters darkly about oil in his hair that Merlin blithely ignores in favor of scattering kisses across his mouth, arching slightly, his head swimming with Arthur. 

He ducks his head and kisses Arthur’s neck, licks and sucks against his collarbones. Arthur groans weakly. 

It’s not long before it’s clear just what Merlin’s wriggling in Arthur’s lap has left him, and their kisses grow more weighted and precise. Merlin slides one hand down and cups him through the trousers he wears, then tugs them down enough, fingers quick and clever, to curl around his cock and stroke once, thumb pressing at the head. His hand is already slick, and doesn’t lose any of that slickness, and he moves easily over Arthur, that same mint crushing in the air between them. 

Arthur, impatient, leans forward and presses Merlin onto his back, kissing him desperately, hot and sloppy, his hands grabbing at Merlin however he can reach. Merlin responds in turn, his hands still slick as they run over Arthur, kneading absently against the muscles of his thighs and then down between them, wriggling his fingers a bit between them, slides down hard against him, presses his fingers up to him and starts stroking, teasing, pulling out the soft, eager sounds from Arthur’s lips before he ducks down to kiss him quiet. 

Arthur jolts a bit at the touch, whines out, kisses him deep and sloppy as Merlin presses two fingers into him easily, stroking into him with a fluidity that leaves Arthur breathless, and he rocks down to meet him, hands gripping Merlin’s shoulders tightly. 

They move like that, just focusing on that, Merlin’s fingers slick and sliding into him easily, Arthur wriggling his hips down to meet him. 

When he mumbles for Merlin to hurry up already, Merlin simply nods and obeys, drawing his hands back and slicking his hand over his cock before pressing into him with a practiced kind of ease that leaves Arthur arching up with a breathless sigh.

“Alright so far?” Merlin asks, breathless and cautious.

Arthur gasps out and rocks his hips down hard to coax Merlin into movement. “Stop thinking I’m going to break and just _move_.”

And Merlin obeys him there, too. 

When he finally comes, he feels Merlin twitch inside of him and follow him after, and he’s slicked and sticky, and he gasps out his pleasure and feels Merlin collapse atop him, curling his arms around him and nuzzling sleepily against his neck.

Merlin smiles a bit, presses their foreheads together, and waits for Arthur to open his eyes to look at him before he murmurs a spell that makes the familiar magic bloom in his eyes – and up close like this, Arthur’s left utterly breathless. 

He’s clean a moment later, and Merlin is looking at him triumphantly. They relax in a tangled pile of limbs and nuzzles. 

 

 **IV.**  
It’s Arthur’s birthday and Arthur had become rather resigned to the fact that he would spend most of the day moping, saddened, thinking back to the life he’d lost – thinking back to everything that no longer existed. It isn’t as if he’d thought of his birthday – or the day of his inauguration – with any kind of good spirit. Now with centuries stretched between him and the life he knew, things feel even worse. So, he’s resigned to the idea that he’ll be spending most of the day in a quiet contemplative silence. 

That is, of course, before Merlin sets down a box in front of him, brightly wrapped, and instructs Arthur to unwrap his gift. And he should have known that Merlin would have something to say about the day. 

Arthur stares at him, frustrated, but also obeys him when he nods again towards the present, tugging back the strangely colored paper and revealing a sleek box. Once he opens it, there’s what Arthur can only assume is a dick in a box. Well not assume. It’s clearly a dick in a box. Not a real one, of course, but a sleek one made of one of the strange future materials he never pretends to understand. He stares. He stares some more, utterly confused and flushing despite himself. 

“What?” is all he can manage to say, knowing his ears are pink.

“It’s a dildo,” Merlin says, not quite nonchalant but strangely calm given the fact he’d just gifted Arthur with a penis.

“It’s a what?” Arthur asks, utterly confused. 

“… It’s a toy,” Merlin says, cautiously, and while he doesn’t blush, it’s clear he’s at least half mortified by Arthur’s entirely bemused reaction. “I figured you’d like it.” 

“But—”

“I know you’ve seen porn before, Arthur, I’ve watched you poking around on the computer,” Merlin says. 

“Well,” Arthur admits without admitting, feeling like his face will explode if he keeps this blushing up much longer. “It’s _purple._ ”

“Purple’s a nice color,” Merlin protests. He wears purple all the time. 

Arthur blushes and shakes his head. “It’s – rather conspicuous.” 

“Shall I make it a color you prefer, Sire?” Merlin asks, and cants out a spell that turns the purple dildo a flaming red and gold combination. Arthur sputters something out that might have been words but then finds himself thoroughly unable to speak anything for a long moment. Merlin’s amused despite himself and asks, “Better.”

“Not… really,” Arthur says, and manages to will down his blush enough to give Merlin a heated glare – hating that the flush isn’t entirely from embarrassment. “Merlin. Don’t think I’m above throwing this at you.”

Merlin rolls his eyes and repeats the spell and the dildo fades into a deep blue and finally to black. 

Arthur ducks his head, and considers throwing the dildo at Merlin’s stupid head just to be contrary, but mutters, “Better.” 

“I thought we could try it,” Merlin says after he gives Arthur a few moments to squirm under his gaze, staring down at the toy with a look of pure confusion and definitely some desire. 

Arthur isn’t sure quite how it happens, but ten minutes later finds him flushed on the bed, naked, arse in the air, and Merlin working three fingers into him steadily, slick and open and aided by just a touch of magic and Arthur is a moaning, trembling mess already and the toy hasn’t come anywhere near him. Merlin spreads his fingers open inside of him and Arthur clutches desperately at the pillow he’s gripping tight in his arms to keep from writhing flat outright. Merlin twists and Arthur makes a frankly embarrassing noise into the pillow. 

Merlin sounds unbearably smug when he asks, “Are you doing alright, Sire?”

“Fuck off, Merlin,” Arthur curses. 

Merlin merely hums, twists his fingers and hooks them inside them – and Arthur gasps, arching. 

“Just…” Merlin chews on his lip, pressing a lush kiss to the curve of Arthur’s spine as he works the fingers inside of him. “Tell me if it’s too much – if I hurt you.”

“You never could,” Arthur breathes out, squirming, knowing his voice is thick with desire, breathless and short. “You’d never hurt me.” 

Merlin breath hitches, softly, almost imperceptible. And then he breathes out again and kisses down Arthur’s back, strokes into him, spreads him open. 

It takes only a few more moments of that before Merlin is drawing back with a quiet, secretive smile, stroking his hands down over Arthur and fetching the toy. He slicks it up with a murmur of magic and Arthur shivers in anticipation. Merlin presses it up against him and Arthur holds his breath for a moment before he forces himself to relax, shifts his hips back slightly. Merlin presses it in, movements slow and precise – never pushing too hard or too fast, never giving Arthur more than he needs in that moment. 

Even after all that preparation, he still feels like it isn’t nearly enough. But Merlin presses the dildo in deeper, and Arthur begins to tremble, and it’s overwhelming but wonderful. He inhales and lets out a soft hissing sound when he exhales, shivering at the sensation of it. Merlin’s hand is firm on the base of the toy, not letting too much go into Arthur too deeply, not before Arthur is ready – and Arthur snaps his hips a bit, feeling utterly bare and vulnerable, and knowing that Merlin will take care of him.

“Are you alright?” Merlin whispers. 

The dildo feels large, larger than Merlin, or perhaps just foreign, not warm and familiar like having Merlin draping over his back, arms wrapped snug around him. He shakes his head, breathing out raggedly and holding still. 

“Just give me a minute.” 

He feels Merlin nod against the small of his back, peppers light kisses up his spine. He doesn’t move the dildo and he doesn’t try to draw Arthur into any unsteady movements. He just waits for Arthur to adjust. His answer to Arthur’s command isn’t with words but rather with touches, hands cupping his hips, lips touching the base of his neck, waits for Arthur to slowly stretch open with the dildo half inside of him.

It’s only a few moments of that, of just melting into Merlin’s touch, before Arthur gives the smallest of nods and Merlin starts to work the dildo into him again, slow inch by slow inch. It’s easier this time with Arthur forcing himself to relax, breathing out, his shoulders tensed and hitched slightly despite his efforts. 

“Okay?” Merlin whispered. Arthur manages a small nod, and rolls his hips back experimentally, to feel himself pull the dildo in deeper. 

“Use your magic,” he gasps out, needing to see that bloom of magic, needing to feel it stretching over him and under him – all over him. “For something – anything.” 

“Well,” Merlin says, and chews on his lip, hesitating. 

“Come on,” Arthur whines, squirms, rolls his hips to try to shimmy the dildo in deeper. He envisions Merlin squeezing in alongside the toy and nearly gasps just from the thought of it, even if only a fantasy. “Just – come on. What do you have? Give it to me.” 

Merlin hesitates further, looks like he won’t admit to it, so Arthur just shakes his head.

“I trust you. Do it.” 

Merlin breathes out, shaky. 

And then there’s the smallest, gentlest ghost of a hand against his side, even though both of Merlin’s hands are firmly occupied. He jolts a little in surprise, turns to look at Merlin over his shoulder – recognizing the feeling of it even if it’s far more pleasant now, doesn’t leave him in a melting mess of overstimulation. 

Merlin gives him a slightly lopsided, if terrified, smile, the touch disappearing with Arthur’s jolt. “It’s… I’ve been working on it. If – I know if –” He stammers to a halt, waits a beat, and then says, voice hushed and uncertain, “I’ll make sure it wasn’t like last time. But if you don’t want it—”

Arthur nods, interrupting him. “Yeah – yeah keep doing that.” 

He ducks his head against the blush that surges over him when Merlin nods and starts working the dildo into him deeper, setting a steady pace with one hand on the base of the fake cock, working it into him, Merlin’s other hand squeezing his hip. There’s a long moment in which Arthur is thoroughly focused on Merlin’s breathing, in the way, slowly, he can hear and feel him relax in his movements. Then there are more touches, phantom hands brushing over him, one pressing to his heaving stomach, the other pushing his hair back from his forehead, another curling around the base of his cock and squeezing to keep him from coming, one stroking at the spot where his arse meets his upper thigh, one kneading at the bottom of his foot in something of a massage but much gentler. Arthur moans, arches, tries to move into each touch at once. 

It’s far different than it was before – he feels overfull with the dildo inside of him, with fingers brushing at his mouth that Arthur would suck into his mouth if they were real. He feels spread out and touched at once, dozens of hands moving over him in tandem, possessive but protective, warm and familiar. 

Merlin doesn’t set a fast tempo with the toy, it’s mostly a curious thing – both of them exploring it and they quickly set into a rhythm. Merlin is treating him gently, as he always does, there are hands kneading into his shoulders to coax him to relax, some fingers playing with his hair, one pressed to his pounding heart, another on his stomach, another around his cock. He knows he’s being treated gently, and it just makes him moan quietly, for want of comfort, for want of that love. 

They start out slow like that, changing the angle, teasing out the moans from Arthur’s mouth as he lets his head hang, lets the dildo push deep into him. He breathes out slowly, occasionally rocks back hard to force the toy in deeper and gasping out a surprised moan at the sensation. Merlin is pressed up against him, he can feel his cock against the swell of his arse, even as he works the dildo inside him, and Merlin’s forehead presses to the back of his neck, working into him, holding him close, just feeling him enjoy this. 

Arthur knows why Merlin’s doing this, knows why there’s touch everywhere, that full feeling inside of him, all of this as a means of distraction – as a means to feel loved, needed, wanted above all else. For a means to not think about what day it is, what day he’s left behind for thousands of years, a birthday and a day of death, a day that’s passed so many years for Merlin without Arthur by his side. And Arthur nearly chokes with it, drowns with the thought of what Merlin must have thought on this day, all those years that passed – how his thoughts must have lingered, how they must have drifted. 

Like this, he can just sink into the sensations, sink into the feelings. The hands stroking over him are there because Merlin loves him. They’re there because Arthur trusts Merlin. He’s held and anchored, touched all over, loved and needed – that’s not something he’ll forget again. 

He sighs out, squirms, and then rolls up a bit, as best he can given the toy in his arse, and reaches for Merlin – pushes him down onto his back. Merlin blinks up at him, comically owlish for a moment, before he laughs, letting Arthur adjust himself to straddling and helps by using magic to keep the toy snug inside him. The phantom hands assist him, stroking over him, guiding him, lifting him up, and he moans helplessly as he presses down, slides his aching cock against Merlin’s. 

Their cocks pressed together, Arthur starts rocking his hips forward in earnest. Merlin’s hands lift to cup his face, holding him close, pressing their foreheads together as a phantom hand works the dildo into Arthur in time to the phantom hand stroking over both their cocks together. The friction and the magic is almost too overwhelming and Arthur keens a little whimper, his cheeks blazing with warmth, he takes control of the movements, rocking back hard against the toy and forward into Merlin’s magic. Merlin isn’t putting any physical touch on him, his true hands still touching Arthur’s face, sharing breath, their noses bumping, their mouths brushing. 

He was used to this feeling, being over Merlin, riding him out, having that feeling of control in a world that he felt zero control over, over a man whom he couldn’t control but who obeyed him anyway, who found him worthy of loyalty and care. He feels too full, too overwhelmed, but not enough to actually ask that Merlin stop, not daring to ask him to stop, not daring to let anything take away from the delighted twisting of his body, the rolling of his hips, the press of invisible hands all over him, pressing into him, against him, around him – petting his hair, stroking his neck, petting his chest, sliding over his and Merlin’s cocks. 

Satisfied with his position, Arthur launches into it, thrusting back against the fake cock and forward against Merlin’s cock, his own hands grasping at Merlin wherever he can reach, scrambling for a hold on him, only half-aware of his movements, already far too distracted with Merlin’s attentions. 

Arthur comes, a few minutes later, without a physical touch from Merlin, his hands still firmly cupping his face, their eyes open as Merlin whispers absent spells, magic swirling around them without any connection or purpose other than for Arthur to be mesmerized by the gold sparking in Merlin’s eyes – and coming against their stomachs with a sharp cry. He clenches his eyes shut, rides it out, bites his lip and when he opens them again, Merlin is smiling at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling up, and he mouths out a spell against his mouth as he kisses him and Arthur shivers all over. It takes only a few more rocks of his hips before Merlin is joining him, biting his lip and gasping out his delight. 

Afterwards, it’s an easy clean-up and Merlin carefully placing the toy away before collapsing boneless into Arthur’s arms, nuzzling against his chest and kissing above his heart.

“Did you like it?”

Arthur considers the question, considers how completely weightless he feels, feels like he’ll fall asleep and sleep the rest of the day away – and any dangerously heavy thoughts already far away. 

He closes his eyes and hums, content. 

“It was alright,” he says at last, figuring that Merlin is waiting for an actual answer. “I think I like it more when it’s you inside of me.” 

He’s too tired to be embarrassed, even when Merlin gives a flustered little laugh and agrees. 

 

 **V.**  
When Merlin pressed his fingers up against Arthur’s back and Arthur felt the vibrations stemming off his fingertips it had seemed like it’d be the perfect way to spend the evening – “I developed it from a spell I use to create earthquakes,” Merlin had said, entirely too nonchalant about something that should have been entirely intimidating and yet only managed to make Arthur want to moan right then and there. 

It hadn’t taken long at all for Merlin to whisper a spell to strip Arthur down naked and push him onto the bed. Arthur went willingly, lying onto his back and getting comfortable, spreading his legs and letting Merlin press sweet, gentle kisses against his inner thighs, his hands sliding down over his hips and legs, the vibrations pulsing over his hand. 

It’s going smoothly, the spell ramping up, making Merlin’s hand go numb and his fingers moving over Arthur’s skin comfortably, responding in time to Arthur’s soft gasps and squirms at the touch. 

Arthur murmurs for him to go ahead, to hurry up, and Merlin whispers the familiar spell of slicking his fingers up, presses them to him, slides one finger in gently. The vibrations mount, growing in magnitude, and Merlin presses a few kisses to his thighs, murmuring his name, breathing out how nice he feels and how good he looks – which just makes Arthur duck his head in embarrassed pleasure, his hips squirming in absent circles. 

Merlin focuses on that, just stroking into him, watching Arthur writhe around the vibrations. And then he bites gently at Arthur’s hip, looks up at him, and says, “Should I try something else, too?”

“Go ahead,” Arthur says, and doesn’t ask Merlin to clarify, to explain – just trusts him entirely. That, alone, is what gets Merlin’s heart to swell. 

Merlin whispers out the spell, similar to the phantom touch, but giving the illusion of his fingers growing inside of Arthur, filling him entirely along with the vibrations, which, now that he pays attention, seem to be pulsing a little too firmly from the other side of his numb hand. He’s been working on this spell, too, usually in the early morning hours when Merlin can’t sleep longer and Arthur’s still sleeping. His fingers remain firmly in place, but he watches Arthur arch, knows he’s feeling the effects of the spell, the feeling of his fingers growing and growing, swelling inside of him, hooking inside of him, growing fat and thick. 

Arthur moans a little, shimmies, squirms and rocks back against him indulgently – which means he likes it. He bites at his lip, breathes out sharply. Merlin hooks his fingers inside him and Arthur keens out. Encouraged, Merlin spreads his fingers wide. Arthur’s moan turns into a small whine and he jerks when Merlin shifts his fingers and almost kicks Merlin in the face for his troubles. Then Arthur shudders, jerks again, tenses up entirely around Merlin’s fingers. 

“Whoa!” he gasps out. 

Merlin looks up – used to all of Arthur’s sounds and movements, and frowning, knowing that _that_ wasn’t a good response. “Arthur—”

“That’s _awful_!” Arthur gasps out without thinking, and then looks apologetic when he sees the way Merlin’s face falls. “It’s – it’s too much. Merlin—”

“Should I—?”

“Don’t – they’re still getting bigger,” Arthur moans, pained, trying to squirm away. 

“Arthur,” Merlin says, alarmed, would yank his fingers out right that moment if he didn’t think it would hurt him. 

“It’s alright, just—”

Merlin shakes his head, already shifting back and withdrawing his fingers from inside of him, as quickly as he can manage without causing Arthur pain, his hand still humming and finding it difficult to stop it – his hand is numb now with the movements and he hadn’t noticed how powerful it’d become. He looks stricken for a moment, looking up at Arthur with a mix of fear and horror, his entire insides souring with the fact that he’s hurt Arthur – that the spell keeps growing without him truly controlling it. 

Before he can open his mouth to start babbling, Arthur sits up, cups his face, and kisses him. “It’s alright,” he whispers. “Sometimes it doesn’t work.” 

“Arthur—”

“Stop,” he murmurs against his mouth, kissing him a few times, “It’s alright. Not everything will work.” 

Arthur tilts his jaw and kisses him with a gentleness he’s taken to showing more and more often, touch light and reassuring. Merlin’s hands shake, not from vibrations, and his throat feels dry – but Arthur just keeps kissing him, again and again, without stopping, until finally Merlin melts a little against him and kisses him back. 

They press close together again, squirming and huddling together, focusing entirely on kissing – and it’s Arthur who comforts him, even though a distant part of Merlin thinks he should be caring for Arthur in turn, checking on him – but slowly, slowly Arthur begins to relax beneath him and the pain seems to have passed. He runs his hands down Arthur’s back, soothing, stroking over the expanse of his back and down to his arse – but it’s tender, still, as Arthur shifts absently when he touches there. Merlin withdraws his hands and keeps them firmly on his back, comforting him. Arthur sighs out gently, kisses him and seems perfectly content with that. Soon enough, Merlin’s kissing Arthur back teasingly, their breath mingling with quiet laughter when their noses bump, when there’s really nothing funny happening—

They meet eyes and Arthur’s smile blooms across his face and Merlin’s chest gives that staggering, devastatingly lurch it always does to see Arthur happy. 

“Keep going?” Arthur whispers. “Just touch me.” 

Overly fond and overly warm, Merlin leans in closer. “Tell me if I do anything you don’t like.”

Arthur huffs, not quite a scoff but something lighter, and kisses him – messy and determined, his fingers curling against his jaw and then sliding back into his hair. They kiss for a long moment, slow and unhurried, yet with that edge of desire inching through it. 

He rolls Arthur onto his side, spoons up against him, pressing sloppy kisses over his neck and shoulder, waiting for Arthur to shiver and relax before rutting a bit against him, hands sliding down his chest and to his cock, curling around it and stroking it back to full hardness again. 

“Have I—” Arthur gasps out quietly, arching, “—mentioned yet that you’re a complete pervert?” 

Merlin laughs, bites his ear, slicks up his hands and runs them over Arthur’s thighs, and squeezes his cock in between his clenched thighs, sliding up along the underside of Arthur’s balls, watching the way Arthur flushes, tips his chin up, and bites back a small whine. 

He starts shifting his hips very gently, and Arthur keens, quiet and still, mumbling that he doesn’t have to be gentle, but Merlin’s cupping his hips and moving carefully, mindful not to make him sore, his fingertips thoroughly unmoving against his skin. He kisses and nuzzles to Arthur’s neck, glances up to watch the shift in Arthur’s profile as he rides out his pleasure, brow furrowing, lips pursing and then falling open in soft gasps, moving back against Merlin’s cock, hand groping blindly behind him to cup Merlin’s hip and pull forward. Merlin goes gladly, breath coming out in puffs against Arthur’s ear. 

“I’m not a pervert,” Merlin mumbles, nibbles on Arthur’s ear and Arthur lets out a gasping moan that dissolves into quiet laughter, rocking his hips so that Merlin’s cock slides against his briefly before slipping back down against his thighs. He squirms a little, gripping Merlin’s hip and guiding him along. 

You are,” Arthur says, decisively, around a half-formed moan. 

“I’m not the one who gets hard from watching me make tea with magic.” 

“You cheat,” Arthur snips. 

Merlin smiles to himself, kisses at the curve of Arthur’s jaw – and accepts Arthur’s assessment, not because it’s necessarily true but because they both know the real reason – the reason of Arthur’s gasping breath at Merlin’s glow of magic, at the trust that tugs between them, Arthur, always open and ready for Merlin’s magic, for whatever Merlin might suggest, and Merlin wanting to do nothing more than please his king, to draw out his pleasure. Arthur, who trusts Merlin to never truly hurt him, and Merlin, who trusts for Arthur to tell him when it’s pain and not pleasure he feels—

Trusts him to always know how to make him feel good. 

Arthur comes with a soft gasp, pushed over the edge by Merlin’s hand trailing gently down his chest, and he makes a mess of the sheets and his stomach, riding out his pleasure against Merlin’s cock, who needs only a few more strokes before he’s coming as well, against his hand to try to cup some of the mess. When he’s spent, slumped against Arthur’s shoulder, he slides his fingers over Arthur’s stomach, not necessarily cleaning him as he is smearing the come over his heaving belly. 

Arthur laughs, wrinkles his nose, and tugs his hand up so he can kiss his palm and suckle on his fingertips, producing a quiet moan from Merlin. He doesn’t move, just lets Arthur do as he pleases, and he threads their fingers together after a moment before titling his head so he can look at Merlin.

“Clean us up.”

Merlin nods, and whispers the spell so that Arthur can see the change of his eyes, and the come disappears from Arthur’s body and their bed. 

“Was that better, Sire?” 

“Yeah,” Arthur sighs out, closing his eyes and nuzzling against Merlin’s jaw as best he can despite the angle. 

Their movements are slow and sleepy, and it only takes a few more minutes before they lapse into a gentle sleep, Merlin’s arms around Arthur, their fingers curled together. 

 

 **VI.**  
They kiss lazy and slow and Merlin takes his time unbuttoning Arthur’s shirt, sliding it off his shoulders. As each shoulder is exposed, he presses gentle kisses over the expanse of those strong shoulders. Arthur stays still, patient, knows better than to try and get Merlin to let him reciprocate. If there’s one thing that Arthur knows, it’s that Merlin is stubborn. So he sighs out, closes his eyes, lets Merlin do as he pleases – which is, always, to please Arthur. 

Merlin licks and kisses, sucks over Arthur’s skin and helps him out of his clothes, his fingers slow and lingering, sliding over Arthur until he’s naked and he pulls back, not quite soaking it in because of how many times he’s seen Arthur naked, but taking his time because he knows how Arthur shivers under the attention, loves to watch the blush build up his neck and over his ears, rosing up his cheeks. 

“Lie down,” he instructs and Arthur obeys with a nod, moving back and scrambling into position, arms at his sides but lifting to reach for Merlin as he strips himself down and joins him. Merlin blankets over him and Arthur sighs out, feeling utterly safe, utterly relaxed – he arches up and Merlin’s there to meet him and they trade lazy, gentle kisses. 

Things are moving slowly, smoothly, Merlin’s hands gliding down over Arthur, kneading into sore muscles at his shoulders, at his thighs, cupping his hips, tracing over his ribs, his touch soft and gentle, overwarm, and Arthur sighs out, fingers curling into Merlin’s hair and keeping him close as they kiss. 

They stay like that for a long moment, and Merlin mouths out spells he doesn’t actually speak into the kiss, just to elicit Arthur’s breathless little moan, his tongue laving over Merlin’s bottom lip, kissing him soundly, biting down gently. His fingers drag through Merlin’s hair and Merlin hums out, gentle and content. 

“Happy?” 

“Mmmhm,” Arthur hums out, slow and sleepy-sounding, smiling up at Merlin.

“Shall I keep going?” Merlin whispers, already knowing the answer. 

“Go on,” Arthur says back, does not ask Merlin to clarify, just arches slightly.

Merlin breathes out the spell and his fingers slick up, as usual, pressing down to tease at Arthur, sliding his fingers over him, knuckles grazing, pressing to the spot just behind his balls and pulling a small, twisted gasp of pleasure from Arthur, who arches slightly to find better friction against Merlin’s fingertips. Merlin teases him in threads of warmth and friction, takes his time. 

They set a slow, teasing pace like that, Merlin covering him completely, rutting a bit so their cocks slide together even as Merlin slowly presses two fingers into Arthur’s willing body, their movements measured and precise, Merlin unwilling to go quickly with this, unwilling to hurt him with the stretch of it. He coaxes out a quiet sigh from Arthur as he scissors his fingers inside of him, rolls his hips so their cocks catch and drag. 

“I love when you do this,” Arthur confesses before he can quite stop it – as if it isn’t something Merlin knows inside and out. 

Still, he melts against Arthur, presses their foreheads together and waits for Arthur to open his eyes before smiling at him gently and whispering, “Every day I think about doing this to you.”

Arthur grins at him, and it’s crooked and oddly boyish in that moment, flushing. “Yeah?” 

“Yes,” Merlin agrees, and kisses him. Arthur sighs out and kisses him back. 

They move like that, slowly, taking their time with each other – their kisses are unhurried. They drag their cocks together in leisured patience, and Merlin’s fingers pressed inside of him working to stretch him open with a practiced ease and persistence. He adds a third finger and Arthur gasps out quietly into their kiss, open-mouthed and sloppy, sharing their breath, noses bumping, chins hitting at times. 

Merlin doesn’t draw his fingers out but Arthur can feel the blunt movement of Merlin’s cock pulling away and pressing up against him instead and he has to smile, rocks his body down to try to meet the head of his cock, to try to push him inside, to squeeze in along his fingers. 

“Go on,” he whispers out, grinning up at him, unable to keep still for anticipation. “I’m ready.” 

“You will be,” Merlin agrees, and then whispers, quietly, “May I try something?”

“You don’t have to ask,” Arthur exhales, but Merlin knows he does, if only for his own sake, if only to give Arthur the chance to refuse, to pull back from all this magic he’s been embracing – and hoping he never does. 

He chants the spell and slowly, from head to toe, Arthur goes utterly relaxed beneath him, pliant and open. Arthur’s lips part and he blinks in a lazy kind of surprise, and then smiles. He’s slack-jawed, not moving, just blinking up at Merlin in a soft kind of expectancy. 

“Alright?”

“Go on,” Arthur sighs, and closes his eyes, languid and fluid, his voice graveled. 

Merlin nods, draws his fingers out, and pushes into Arthur – inch by slow, agonizing inch, moving so slowly that it’s almost too much just from that, the pressure so light it barely feels like he’s stretching at all. He realizes there’s magical aid happening and looks up in time to see the gold fade from Merlin’s eyes as he slides into Arthur with no resistance, easy and spaced, sliding up at the hilt, his hands braced on Arthur’s thighs to keep his legs open. 

Merlin pushes a little forward, starts rocking against him, and it’s at once pressure and friction as it is the easiest slide Arthur’s ever felt – and he feels full, drowning in Merlin, and he arches and gasps and reaches up to grasp at Merlin’s shoulders, looking up at him and biting his lip.

“Merlin,” he murmurs, voice taut and faint.

“I’m here,” Merlin says back, leans down and presses soft kisses to Arthur’s jaw and ear. “Let me take care of you, Sire. Let me.” 

Arthur nods, tilts his chin up, just drowns in the feeling of Merlin all over him. 

Merlin doesn’t stop saying it, a quiet litany of, “Let me. Let me. Let me.” 

Arthur lets him – doesn’t protest, just lets Merlin do with him as he wants, do with him as he wishes, utterly at his mercy, Merlin bottoming out against him and stroking into him and he’s not tense, only utterly relaxed, any anxiety or unease draining out of him with each stroke of Merlin’s cock inside him. Knowing, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that Merlin has him. That he’s safe. That no harm will come to him. 

“Let me,” Merlin whispers, considers Arthur, eyes flickering over his face. 

“You’ve got me,” Arthur gasps back, lifts his hands, touches Merlin’s cheeks, draws him down so he’s blanketing him again, their foreheads pressed together. “I love you. I’ve never loved anyone as I love you.”

Merlin stutters to a halt, gasps out, opens his eyes to stare at Arthur around the blurring of tears in his eyes – and Arthur smiles at him, helpless and knowing that Merlin _knew_ , that he’d always known, and now—

“I love you.” His voice is thick, tight with centuries of unspoken words jabbed into his throat – and they kiss and kiss and kiss. 

Arthur hitches his hips up, tries to bring Merlin in deeper, already feels he’s impossibly deep but needs more, needs more even though Merlin is moving almost punishingly slow. Arthur’s voice is nearly a sob when he says, “More. More, Merlin.” 

“How much more?” Merlin whispers against the line of his jaw, kissing and nibbling along the stubble of a full day, thinks to himself that he shouldn’t let Arthur shave anymore if only for the delightful scrape against his cheek. 

Arthur’s voice quavers, overwhelmed, and he reaches for Merlin again. “Merlin…”

“I’ve got you.” Their fingers curl together, he presses Arthur’s hands down onto the bed beside his head, presses their foreheads together, and rocks harder into Arthur. Like this, Arthur feels surrounded, sheltered – Merlin is all around him, inside him, so impossibly deep it must be magic and the only sound in the room is the gasp of his hitching voice, the slick sound of skin on skin, of Merlin pushing into him. Everything is Merlin. Every place their bodies are touching is a point of shocking heat for Arthur and he writhes in pleasure, squeezes their hands, tries to slide his cock up against Merlin’s belly. 

And then Merlin starts to pull back and Arthur gasps, trying to get closer, trying to wriggle down against him – but Merlin only laughs, shakes his head, pulls his cock back enough that the flare of his cockhead is tugging at his rim and it’s making Arthur _sob_ as Merlin peppers kisses over his face, and presses back in again. 

“ _Merlin_ ,” he sobs out, refuses to beg although his voice is already teetering on the edge towards that desperation. 

“Tell me what you want, Arthur,” Merlin whispers and Arthur squirms. “You sound beautiful like this.”

Arthur barks out an embarrassed laugh, bumps his forehead to his with a soft gasp as Merlin rocks his hips forward mercilessly, pressing in deep. “S — shut up.” 

He feels boneless beneath Merlin, utterly pliant and at Merlin’s mercy – and trusting him completely, shifting his hips to meet him, shivering in his pleasure. Never a moment without that trust – never a moment when he doesn’t know he’ll be taken care of. 

Never a moment when he sees that flash of magic where he thinks he’ll hate it. Never a moment, now, when he sees that magic and doesn’t know, completely, that he is safe and loved. It’s been a long time coming, but at least it’s something that Arthur knows for sure. Merlin’s magic will never harm him. 

“Next time,” Merlin gasps out, rocking forward, “I’ll hold you up and you can ride me like this, just letting the weight take you.”

Arthur moans, sobs out a choked gasp, and nods his head eagerly, fucks himself down on Merlin’s cock, can’t form words around the hupping sounds of his moans and gasps, utterly surrounded by Merlin, feeling him pressed up to him, feeling him inside him, never wanting to be without that feeling again. 

Merlin’s hips are losing rhythm now, no longer a steady stroking teasing at Arthur from the inside out. Instead, he’s just moaning along with Arthur, falling into that feeling, letting himself sink into him and tremble, arms shaking as he holds himself up. 

When he comes inside of Arthur, it’s with a muffled moan that he presses into his hair, murmuring his name against his ear, and Arthur shivers and shudders, and it takes only two strokes of Merlin’s hand before he’s coming with a soft cry beneath him, going limp.

When Merlin collapses onto him after that, draws out of him, and lifts the spell, Arthur is still a pliant, boneless mess beneath him, and Merlin drapes himself over him, kissing every inch of him he can reach, presses his ear to his heart, and feels Arthur sigh out, heavy-lidded and smiling as he lavishes small, lazy kisses to Merlin’s forehead and temple. 

 

 **VII.**  
If there’s one thing that Merlin appreciates about the twenty-first century, it’s the instantly hot water gushing from the faucet as Arthur climbs into the large bath tub, movements tentative. It certainly beats carrying bucket upon bucket of hot water to bathe Arthur back in Camelot, although even without the invention of modern plumbing, at least Merlin knows he’d be free to heat the water up himself with magic, manual labor unnecessary. Arthur lounges in the water, steam curling up from the tub and leaving Arthur supple and relaxed, sweat beading at his forehead and making his hair dampen and stick. His eyes are closed, arms draped over the edge of the tub, and he just lounges. Even if Merlin isn’t necessary for bathing purposes or any kind of servant duties anymore, it’s commonplace for Merlin to hover – a kind of familiarity that the two of them both covet and need. 

Arthur sighs out, his smile slow and gentle and he looks divine. Merlin smiles a bit, indulgent and overly fond, and cups his hands in the water, lifting handfuls of water and letting them pour down Arthur’s chest. Arthur shivers appreciatively but doesn’t say anything, although thankfulness radiates off him in waves. But his beautiful, lovely king is too much of a fool to actually speak the words, and even now, after centuries, a quiet ‘thank you’ is enough to send his heart panging to painful memories. 

As it is, he presses warm kisses to the length of Arthur’s throat, leaning in over the lip of the tub and breathing in the scent of Arthur’s skin, mingling with the curls of soap along the bath’s edge. 

Their movements are lazy, deliberate. Arthur tips his head back, swallows once, and sighs out – his eyes still closed, lips slightly parted, utterly relaxed and trusting beneath Merlin’s hands, that smooth down his chest and shoulders, pulling back briefly to fetch the soap and lather them up, washing Arthur’s front without any real desire to do anything beyond touching. He kisses his neck and along his jaw, and Arthur murmurs incoherent words as he lapses into a light sleep, his head bobbing once before Merlin cushions the movement with his lips against Arthur’s own, sighing out his name as he kisses him. Arthur does his best to respond, halfway between sleep and wakefulness, but mostly just going elastic underneath him. 

Eventually, Arthur makes a soft sound as he shivers, the curls of steam disappearing as the water cools. Merlin smiles a bit, washes his hands free of the soap and presses his hands to Arthur’s chest. Arthur’s eyes flicker open when Merlin whispers out a few quiet words, and he watches the way the gold curls across his eyes, as always. 

“What’d you do?” Arthur mumbles sleepily as his face starts to heat up, blushing from warmth even as the water stays the same temperature. 

Merlin smiles at him and moves his fingers, quick and clever, over his chest. 

“Do you feel warm now, Sire?” he asks. 

Arthur closes his eyes and leans his head back and shudders a bit as the warmth spreads out from the two spots where Merlin’s hands had been pressed, filling him from the inside out. He feels overly warm, but in a comforting kind of way, filling out from his chest and curling down over his arms and to the tips of his fingers, down over his legs and to his toes. He sighs out in comfort, feels the heat radiating off him enough that the water starts to warm from the heat he’s producing.

And then Merlin’s fingertip traces over his collarbone and it feels like a piece of ice. He hisses out, not in pain but in surprise, and shivers a little as Merlin starts tracing light patterns over Arthur’s chest, each touch a branding of ice in balance to the heat that spreads out inside of him. He’s flushed, his breathing hitching, and he blinks his eyes open to watch Merlin, who’s watching him in turn for any sign of unhappiness or distress. 

The fingertip traces up over his throat, circles around his adam’s apple, and smoothes one line from the tip of his chin to the center of his forehead. The slope of his nose feels cold while his cheeks flame with heat. 

“Merlin,” he insists, if only because he can’t find any other words to speak.

Merlin smiles at him in turn, but there’s a touch of unease there, as if expecting Arthur to pull back. “Is it alright?” 

Arthur just does the smallest of nods, and Merlin’s expression melts into something sunnier, and Arthur flushes with warmth inside that has nothing to do with the spell. 

Merlin whispers out more words to the spell and suddenly every place that Merlin traced his fingertip seers with a startling, comforting warmth, and the rest of him reverses back into a cold chill. He shudders and then shivers, his breath hitching with the gut-punch of the shift, his entire body going rigid and cold in a delightful, easy sort of way. 

And then Merlin cups his face, and there’s a seering warmth pressing there, and he gasps out, parts his lips as Merlin leans in and kisses him, feels the slosh of the water as Merlin climbs into the water with him, his clothes seeming to just melt away. He settles in front of him, careful not to touch him as he settles between his legs, and then he slides his hands down over his neck and over his chest and down to his hips, and it’s like a long trail of heat dragging down over him – something like fire, but without the burn. Just the comfort and care it leaves behind, a warming to counterbalance the chill that seems to radiate off of him. 

He reaches out and touches Merlin’s shoulders, and Merlin shivers at the flush of cold that seeps into his muscles from Arthur’s hands. They press together like that, mingling of cold and warmth, Merlin occasionally whispering the words of the spell into the kiss so they can both enjoy the sudden switch-change of hot to cold, Arthur’s chest pressed to Merlin’s until the cold and the hot mingle, become something lingering. Merlin’s fingers are quick and clever, wet and firm against him as they move across him, tracing heavy patterns like bruises over him, scratchy and dragging. 

It’s a dragging, teasing mess, just a tangle of fingers over skin and their lips together, nothing else, although Merlin’s cock seers cold and hot against his hip between the change of the spell, and Arthur keens slightly, arching, trying to press closer without ever asking what it he wants – and he never needs to voice it, because Merlin is there, his fingertips brushing along the head of his cock, eliciting a deep shiver or a gasping flush of heat in turn. 

Merlin breaks the kiss after a long moment of just enjoying the shift, noses against his jaw and back into his hair, his breath warm and puffing against the cold chill of his lips over the shell of his burning ear. Arthur just hums, tremulous and weak, lifting his hips slightly, his cock sliding into the hollow of his hip, seeking friction in the water that is, undoubtedly, tepid by now, ignored except for the changing body temperatures between the two of them. 

“Which do you like better?” Merlin murmurs against his ear.

“Being warm,” Arthur sighs, then furrows his brow, “Or, maybe you being the warm one.” 

Merlin laughs, tries to tease, but his voice wobbles slightly when he says, “I like it better when you’re warm.”

Arthur opens his eyes, detecting that quaver instantly, and cups his face, keeping him close – and the mood shifts from playful to heavy in seconds and Merlin wants to cry for it. Arthur doesn’t chastise him, doesn’t dismiss the quiet heaviness that hangs between them. 

Instead, he just looks at him and kisses him, slow and lingering. They stay like that, Merlin’s mouth slightly parted as Arthur works him into a boneless heap against him, and slowly the mood floats away between them, settling into something warm and happy again. 

“Keep me warm, then,” he whispers into the kisses and Merlin nods. 

They kiss and kiss, not doing much of anything else, but slowly the spell fluctuates between them, and they are both warm to the touch, pressed against each other, heat seeming to radiate off them starting from where their mouths are connected, Arthur’s hands sliding down over Merlin’s front, drawing him in closer until they’re pressed flushed together again, their cocks dragging in the water. 

“Stand up,” Merlin instructs after a long moment. “Brace your hands on the wall.” 

Arthur seems loathed to move, but the promise of whatever Merlin’s promising proves too much and he stands up, legs wobbling a little as he leans against the bathroom wall, hands braced, looking at Merlin in quiet expectation – he shivers once before Merlin ups the spell and he feels warm all over, even with water dripping from him.

And then Merlin leans in and bites at his thighs, his fingers dragging down over him. Arthur can imagine the imprint of magic against his skin, bruises of magic like smudged fingerprints, lewd and obvious. 

Then Merlin spreads his cheeks and licks at him and coherent thought stops for a while with that hot swipe of his tongue, searing warmth spreading through him and making him flush. He gasps, and Merlin presses closer with pointed little flickers of pleasure against him and it takes all of Arthur’s self-restraint not to start yelping – although quickly all logical thought is derailed in favor of the feel of Merlin pressing up against him. He pushes back, eager, against Merlin, who braces himself on Arthur’s thighs, murmurs a soft spell to keep Arthur upright, to cushion his own knees where he kneels on the hard line of the tub, licking into Arthur with mild ease. 

Merlin presses closer and his tongue is hot and wet, firm and insistent, and Arthur’s reduced to a mess of quiet moans very quickly, fingers curling slightly against the wall, shuddering, rocking back to meet his tongue as he presses in deeper, licking and pressing inside, fingers digging into the meat of his thighs and sliding to cup his arse, spreading him gently to get at a better angle. Arthur is loud and obviously desperate, rocking back against Merlin’s lips and tongue as they stroke over him – heat on heat, feeling too warm, feeling like he’s on fire but only in the best way possible. 

Merlin slides one hand, presses so his thumb joins his tongue, teasing at the rim and Arthur gasps out as Merlin’s tongue works at him, pressing deeper, slicking him up, and Arthur claws uselessly at the wall. Merlin licks enough, laves his way enough, that his thumb slips in without any resistance and Arthur just _gasps._

Merlin laughs, quiet, shuddering with pleasure, pressing his thumb in deep alongside his tongue, stretches him open and licks into him. He slicks his way into Arthur, and drops his free hand down to jerk himself off, lazy and measured, as he tongues into Arthur’s pliant body. 

It only takes a little more for that before Arthur is shouting out his orgasm, thrusting weakly against Merlin’s tongue and mouth and riding it out, coming with a soft cry. Merlin jerks himself off faster to follow after him, and with his belly and knees turned to jelly, he gets to his feet, presses up against Arthur’s back – both of them flaming hot at this part, both pits of their own fire – and kisses the back of his ear, inviting Arthur to go to bed with him and continue this. Arthur goes, of course, without any protest, their fingers curling together and hurrying to the bedroom. 

 

 **VIII.**  
There’s nothing out of the ordinary about Merlin sighing out a spell and Arthur’s clothes slipping off of him as if made of liquid. He’s used to that. He’s also used to Merlin pushing him down onto his back, kissing every inch of him, using magic to aid their way or pet at his hair. 

What he’s not expecting, though, is for Merlin to rock his hips back against Arthur’s cock with a movement that can only be deliberate, and when Arthur reaches out to touch Merlin, to guide him down onto his cock so he can ride him, Merlin instead laughs out a spell and Arthur’s hands fly up above his head, pinned down by an invisible hand. He blinks in surprise as the shift of the phantom hand fades in favor for the delicate feeling of silk wrapped around his hands, keeping them pinned together above his head, and pressed there. Despite an attempt, he can’t lift his hands. 

“… Merlin.” Arthur’s voice veers towards lecture but soon forgets his teasing or his mocking because then Merlin just sinks down onto his cock in one fluid motion, without any preparation save for magic, and it’s tight and he hums out low and pleased, wiggling his hips above Arthur, feeling the cock deep inside of him, pressed down to the hilt. 

Merlin grins at him, flushed, hands on Arthur’s chest to keep his balance as he stares down at Arthur, his eyes dark and pupils blown wide, pitching his hips forward so that Arthur’s cock presses in deeper. And then he sets a deliberate pace, lifting himself onto his knees and dropping back down, the strokes deep and even. 

Merlin thrusts down deep, hard enough to make Arthur’s toes curl and his hands strain against the invisible hold, trying to reach for Merlin, who runs his hands gently over his chest and shoulders, traces the underside of his arms and leans down so they’re pressed chest to chest, Merlin rocking his hips back to take the cock in deep again. 

“That’s… all you have?” Arthur gasps out in a tease. “Careful, _Mer_ lin, I’ll start to think you’re all talk.” 

Merlin snorts, rolls his hips and pulls a deep moan from Arthur’s chest. And then he’s laughing and shifting and they’re moving together, Arthur rocking his hips up to meet Merlin’s strokes back, pressing in deep together and there’s no fumbling or awkwardness at this point, just the quiet stretch of months they’ve had together since Arthur’s return, just the comfort and understanding between them, just soft kisses as Merlin pitches forward to kiss him, wet and dirty, his arms tensed where they’re poised on either side of Arthur, thrusting himself down onto Arthur’s cock. He fucks himself on Arthur over and over, and they kiss, and Merlin breathes out his name, rolls his hips, and just keeps moving – can’t get enough of him. 

Their breath mingles and Arthur moans out Merlin’s name, tries to reach him again and can’t. Merlin smiles, sympathetic, nuzzles against his jaw and doesn’t release him. 

“You feel amazing, Sire,” he whispers and Arthur moans, helpless, wanting to reach for him, wanting to play with his hair, touch at his ears and his jaw, slide down his back, cup his arse and guide him down, stroke at his hips—

“Yeah,” Arthur sobs out and kisses Merlin sloppily with a turn of his head. “Merlin, come on, let me—”

But Merlin, ever the worst at following directions, ignores Arthur’s command and just continues to rock down against Arthur. And like that, completely at Merlin’s mercy, Arthur can’t last and comes with a sharp cry, arching up and thrusting deep into Merlin, and Merlin’s there to meet him, milking him dry with thrusts of his hips, rolling himself down against him, thighs trembling as he straddles him. Arthur’s toes curl and he arches off the bed, head tipping back and crying out his pleasure, wishing beyond anything that he could pull Merlin down against him – but secretly thrilled at being tied down, thrilled to be totally at Merlin’s command, knowing that Merlin would only ever keep him safe. 

“Look at you,” Merlin whispers, leaning forward and kissing him, stroking his hands over him as Arthur thrusts weakly into him. His expression is soft – admiring him. “Arthur…”

Arthur moans, weak, his breath fluttering out into a little while once he’s spent. Merlin smiles, kisses the tip of his nose, and slowly pulls off of Arthur’s cock. He lies out flush against him, though, and takes his pleasure rocking against Arthur’s stomach, finding the hollow of his hip and finding his release there, burying his head against his neck. Arthur wishes he could pet his hair, holding him close, tether him down as he rides out his orgasm. 

“Merlin…” Arthur whines. 

Merlin nuzzles against his jaw, kissing his chin and working his way up to his ear, then kisses his temple, and then shifts to press their foreheads together. 

“Yes?” he asks.

“Let me hold you?” Arthur whispers, and is embarrassed by his voice wavers with that. He coughs to clear his throat, and adds, “My arms are getting tired like this, you idiot.” 

But it takes only a small murmur of a spell and a nod of his head from Merlin for Arthur’s arms to be free, and he pulls Merlin to him, cuddling up to him. 

 

 **IX.**  
Merlin’s fingers ghost over Arthur, tracing over every freckle, every blemish, every scar. 

There’s the one he always focuses on now – half-fearing it, the way it still looks fresh and sore even after centuries of healing. Merlin swallows down and maps his fingers and tongue out over Arthur’s skin. 

“You alright?” Arthur asks, as he always does, when Merlin arches down and kisses over his killing scar, a sharp line across his naked skin, unforgiving and spelling out Merlin’s failures in one clean sweep of a scar. “If it’s too soon…”

Arthur always says this, as if not really realizing the irony of believing his scar is too soon, when it has been thousands of years – but his words are spoken softly, measured and heavy with his own personal honor, his voice thick and warm and drawing Merlin back to an age long gone. 

Instead of answering with words, Merlin merely presses his thumb over the scar where Mordred’s blade pierced Arthur, killed him. Merlin’s hand is shaking a little, his thighs clinging a little tighter where he sits straddling the strong body of a man who isn’t king anymore to anyone but Merlin. 

He isn’t king anymore, but Merlin still needs him – will always need him, will still need him when no one else needs him, even when no one else can remember his name enough to need him. Perhaps they live now in a world that no longer needs them – and Merlin’s alright with that, so long as he can stay by Arthur’s side, so long as Arthur never leaves him again—

They have one another, and the admittance of that, the acceptance of that, doesn’t shake the earth or sky, but it leaves Merlin shaking until Arthur sits up and curls his arms around him. Merlin’s not entirely sure why he’s crying, but he accepts it for what it is, lets Arthur guide him, lets their foreheads press together and pulling and pushing closer to one another. Never quite close enough after so long. He’ll never let Arthur go again.

He pulls back, wipes at his eyes once but it doesn’t stop the flow of tears. Arthur gives him a shaky, wobbling smile – hating to see him cry but understanding that need. 

Then, clearly, as heavy as he can manage, Merlin speaks out a spell and ducks down, pressing a kiss to the killing scar. Arthur’s mouth falls open as he feels the steady, painful punch of love just from that kiss – as if all of Merlin’s love has grown tangible form and is flowing into Arthur. It’s overwhelming. 

Merlin does it again, kisses over every scar, every blemish, murmurs he’s beautiful – and each and every time, Arthur feels, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the weight of Merlin’s heart, as if he’s trying to press his heart deep into Arthur’s chest, so that he can feel it forever. 

And when Merlin draws back, there are tears in Arthur’s eyes, the heaviness of their lives, together and separate, hitting him as fully as it always has – and together they cry, eyes closed, tears falling down their cheeks, but their foreheads pressed together. 

And they move together, Merlin in Arthur’s lap, Arthur dropping his hand to curl around their cocks and no words form between them, Merlin’s mouth hanging open while Arthur strokes them off to a quick and heavy completion, no finesse and no teasing. Just guttural need for release, and Merlin sobs out and Arthur kisses him. They cry and they kiss and they don’t let go of each other. 

“Stay,” Merlin whispers, broken and pleading, a plea that stretches across the years.

“I’m here,” Arthur whispers, breath soft and broken around the quiet sob that lodges into his throat. “I’m _here._ ” 

They don’t draw back, just stay pressed like that. Neither of them wants to move, to be separated – and so they stay like that, together. 

 

 **X.**  
“We’ll just take it easy tonight,” Merlin whispers, kisses the shell of his ear.

Arthur nods, eyes shut, humming out and tipping his chin up. They nuzzle against one another, their movements absent, holding each other, and it’s quiet and gentle and exactly what they both want and need. For them, it isn’t about the sex, it’s the closeness – it’s being able to hold each other after thousands of years of separation. Merlin, able to feel the weight of Arthur’s breath against his shoulder, the steady thump of his heart. For Arthur, to have something tangible, to be real and breathing himself, to have escaped beyond the nebulous unknown of Avalon. Together, there is happiness, and that’s what they’ve needed, what they’ve needed for centuries—

Merlin lifts his hand, twists his fingers once, and sparks float from his fingertips, create constellations in the air before floating away, touching the wicks of the candles Merlin set out earlier, bursting the room into a soft glow of flickering candlelight. Arthur laughs, softly, delighted, and it warms Merlin from the inside out. 

And then he makes the candles flicker, and the flames float away from the wicks, float in the air and create shapes – first a horse, a knight on a horse, then a dragon, then dozens of showering stars that litter the air above them, and Arthur laughs, mesmerized, watching, the lights flickering in his eyes as if he were the one performing the magic. Periodically, he turns his head and merely watches Merlin, watches the gold bloom in his eyes.

“Magic can be silly,” Merlin whispers, embarrassed by the overly fond look that Arthur is giving him. 

“Like you, then,” Arthur says, and there’s no insincerity in his voice, much as he tries to hide the awe as Merlin makes a few of the flames burst into little flower petals that rain down on them. 

Merlin wants to laugh from it all, wants to cry – to watch Arthur reach out, try to touch a flame, have it burst into little rose petals right before his eyes, shocking an amused snort from him. Merlin delights in the chance to be as silly or as serious as he wishes to be, delights in the knowledge that Arthur is _here_ , that Arthur is with him, by his side, and reaching out for the magic rather than recoiling away. He delights in the chance to be completely himself, without reservation, without fear of Arthur’s rejection or disgust. To just have Arthur accept and love him, for exactly who he is. 

They make love that night, amid fallen rose petals and floating candlelight, face-to-face, foreheads pressed together, moving achingly slow and desperately fast in increments. There are flowers stuck in Arthur’s hair. Each time one gets close, the other backs off. They chase after one another, fingers folded together, noses bumping, breaths mingling. 

And it’s exactly what Merlin’s always wanted, to see his own magic mirrored back in Arthur’s eyes, to see Arthur looking at him not in fear, but in awe and love. To hold him and be held in turn – to know that everything is as it should be.

**Author's Note:**

> I can also be found on [my tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/) for any reason, as always.


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